Slide into that sterile room where the chatty doctor
fumbles with the ultra-sound machine, its clanks
and beeps echoing. Look at my exposed belly. Watch
how I stare at the monitor’s motionless image, fold
my arms under my tender breasts. Think of the son
you have, you should tell me. Between full-throated
sobs, I whisk tissue after tissue from the box.
When the doctor leaves to give me time, touch
my shoulder. Reframe this quartet of loss. Say You’ll be fine.
You’ll close the factory and turn it into an amusement
park. Caress my hair like a lover would. Predict
I’ll understand slight-spoken grief: what slips
between women’s lips as they hug, hushed confessions
lodged in diaries, envelopes of silent prayer,
the glaze crossing a mother’s eyes when she sees
big families rough-housing at the playground. Look me
in the eyes. Whisper Someday you’ll call them babies.
Tell me. Tell me. I’ll believe.